asksassynamor:

Year 1, 9 Sweeps

Bartimaeus Crusade

It had all taken Namor by surprise. The ‘Lion’s Mane’ was all he had expected and more, being roughly five times the size of the last vessel he had served on briefly, having its own sort of miniature fleet escort of cruisers to act as guards. From the outside, it appeared to be similar to a cross of a giant monastery and a battleship, giving it a sort of Gothic era feel to it. The inside continued with the monastery theme, halls being made of dark stone with large arches and statues. The windows were stained glass, but clearly made from something much sturdier than glass. While it definitely was not the norm as far as Alternian Empire ships went, it was the inhabitants that made it strange.

During the rush of introduction and being shown his quarters, he barely had time to actually observe his surroundings. While he did notice that certain troll that he and other inductees passed were dressed almost akin to that of monks, despite being of high blood, he failed to notice them. He first met one at the set time for dinner. Namor had been sleeping when that happened, tucked away in his rather Spartan room. He awoke to a quiet knock at the door, slipping out of the coon in his pyjama bottoms. He opened the door, expecting one of two things: Krauka and her shit eating grin or one of his superiors. Both of which were very tall. However, what he did not expect was the small, white clad hooded figure that looked up to him in an odd silence, not even moving beyond the occasional shift of its head.

Even when looking up at Namor, he could not quite make out the features of the creature, always obscured by darkness.  With what seemed to be a nod, the tiny, robed humanoid turned, making a beckoning gesture with its hand. And, for whatever reason, Namor followed. Now with time to think, the Lieutenant actually took time to observe his surroundings, taking in the architectural beauty that was the Lion’s Mane, maintaining its status as a renowned battleship while having such a graceful and ancient interior. He also noticed other small hooded creatures, some seeming to have small wings sprouting from the sides of their hoods, flapping lightly. That flapping alone seemed to allow them to hover.

Namor, being a man who believed that everything had a logical explanation, was just baffled by this. Never before had he seen or heard of things like this. Every other crewman of the ship seemed to just accept that these things walked around and did whatever they did, some of the higher bloods even seemed to have one following them, and holding large tomes open for them while they read. It was just strange.

By the time Namor had snapped out of his confusion at these little waist high creatures, his ‘guide’ seemed to be leading him up a large set of marble stairs. Not once did this creature talk or even turn to look at Namor, just going on.

The creature stopped before a rather humble looking wooden door at the end of the spiral stair case, gesturing for Namor to go ahead. With a rather confused nod, he went to open the door, turning to look at the robed humanoid before entering. It had already begun making its way back down the stairs.

Closing the door behind him, Namor looked to the only inhabitant of the room. Before him was a lowblood, no doubt. He bore robes similar to that of the tiny creatures that seemed to wander the ship amongst the trolls although it lacked the heavy cover for the arms. Instead, the arms were armoured in rather heavy plate, rather archaic symbols. From what little knowledge you had of the old languages, they seemed to tell various battles and victories. The lowblood himself was only a head taller than you, his face showing tales of war in its self, his short hair turning grey on one side, his trimmed goatee having turned completely grey. In his hand was a large, metal, staff, a golden lions head on the end.  The trolls deep red eyes seemed to glow with power as he looked to Namor, a paternal smile gracing his weathered face.  This room seemed to be the troll’s quarters, it seeming much larger on the inside than it did from the outside. The walls were lined with books, along with various rows. It was a library.

“I never thought I would be meeting you so soon, young Ezara. You look just like him, when we were your age.” Spoke the aging troll, stepping forward. His staff clicked on the ground with each step, small sparks of electricity coming from the base as it made contact. A psychic, Namor observed. The staff must have been his way of channelling the energies. Namor stood his ground, placing his hands behind his back. Lowblood or not, this man was his superior, he assumed. One so old and on such a ship would have been his superior in spirit, anyway.

“I do not understand s-“the young lieutenant was cut off by old troll raising his armoured hand, standing before Namor, smiling still.

“Do not threat, young Ezara.” He moved his hand over to Namor’s shoulder, patting it lightly. “I am Chronicler Gazemind. I was a comrade of your genetic donor.”  While Namor was not one to be shocked, this definitely managed to pull it off. . He, honestly, knew very little about him beyond that he used to be a friend of Caeli’s own ancestor. What confused Namor about this though was the fact a lowblood had said this. His ancestor was alive when the Sufferer was executed. How old was this lowblood? And how had he lived so long? “Hm. So much like him, I can tell you’re much more professional, though. I shall not keep you long, boy. I merely give you a gift on my old friend’s request.” With that, the Chronicler raised his hand. The action caused something on the wall, above the books to shake. From first glance, it appeared to be a trophy sword. The sword flew towards Gazemind, it stopping in his firm grasp. He held it out to Namor.

He felt compelled to grab the sword, keeping his eyes on the elder. While he had a very kind smile, Namor could not shake the rather cautious movements he made, the gripping of the well maintained sword being slow and careful. As it entered his grasp, his eyes were drawn to it. It was old, to say the least, but well made.  It was seemingly alien steel, from the features of it. The large guard had similar writings on it as the Chronicler’s arms, although he could not actually tell what they meant this time around. Another odd thing about the blade Namor came to notice was that it exuded a hazy, blue, field around it. It was hard to notice, at first glance.

“His last wish, for it to be given to a worthy wielder. As legacy, I can think of none more worthy.” The door to the candle lit library opened by its self, the Chronicler gesturing for Namor to leave. Throughout this all, he smiled. “I would let you stay and talk, but we shall be arriving in Bartimaeus in a few hours, young Ezara.”

So far from Alternia, Namor felt he had a friend away from the battle. Holstering the blade in the sheath it seemed to come with, he made his way out. At the bottom of the stairs waited one of the small creatures. Once more, it did not speak and simply gestured for the young troll to follow it down the stone halls of the Lion’s Mane.

In a days time, Namor would be in the middle of a war zone. 

[[Namor is a Badass and Kyle is a Great Writer, news at 9]]